


Need Outweighs Practicality At One In The Morning

by ameliaspunkcomplex



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Basically, M/M, Porn With Plot, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 21:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliaspunkcomplex/pseuds/ameliaspunkcomplex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porn With Plot. Dean's Birthday. Angst. Handjobs. What more could you want?</p><p>~~DEDICATED TO IZZY~~~~</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need Outweighs Practicality At One In The Morning

“Happy fuckin’ birthday to me.”

He tipped back the shot. It lit the back of his throat on fire in that beautiful, familiar kind of way, and he smacked the empty shot-glass down on the bar, beside the other four. Things hadn’t started spinning yet, but they were well on their way.

As the woman behind the bar came to clear away the glasses, he chucked her a cocky grin and leant against the bar.

“What’s your name, sugar?” he said, speech not slurred but some words tripping over their own feet.  
She flashed him a quick smile. “Ameena.”  
“That’s a lovely name, Ameena. You’re a lovely girl.”  
“Thank you,” she replied, albeit somewhat curtly.

_No chit-chat, huh? One of those girls? Fine by me._

“What time do you get off work, Ameena?”

The next look she threw his way, of all the things it could be-  
 _ice-cold, sweet as honey, teeth like daggers, he’d seen them all  
_ \- was fucking _sympathetic._  
“I’m sorry,” she said as she gave the bar-top a quick wipe-down, “I’m not interested.”

 _Sympathy?_  
He was embarrassed for a twelth of a second, before swallowing and sitting back in his stool.  
“Hey, no problem,” he murmured, although she was already walking away. “No problem at all.”  
 _Is that how sad he looked?_

He batted the thoughts away. He hadn’t come here to think; so he waited for a different bartender to come his way and ordered more shots, making no secret of the fact that he wanted to get as plastered as possible, as quickly as possible, plain and simple. With each one, the fire in his throat grew duller and duller as the fog around his head grew thicker. Fog, thick and warm and grey and safe. He smiled dopily to himself.

A woman had been flirting with him earlier. She was called… Lucy? Lilly? She wasn’t beautiful, but she was cute, with thick brown hair down to her back and legs that didn’t end. But she wasn’t what Dean wanted. She was sorority, all baby-blue eyes and rosy cheeks. He didn’t want a pretty girl. He wanted somebody who he could fuck into the bed, no kissing, out the door before sunrise, and Lucy-Lilly seemed like the kind of girl who wanted more. Deserved better.

Then again, they all deserved better.

Better than the guy behind the bar with the bags under his eyes and the smell of sweat and dirt on his skin from too many days on the road. The guy who would forget their name come dawn and add it to the long, long list of things about himself he wished he could rip out and burn.

Some things can’t be cremated. So he buried them deep.

Suddenly, there was a heavy hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
Voice made of gravel and salt. He slowly twisted his neck to see Cas staring down at him, face somewhat unreadable, set like stone with only the faintest of creases in his marble brow.  
  
“Cas? What are you doin’ here?” he asked, flustered, and then shortly after, angry. “Can’t a man drink himself to death _alone-”  
_ “We’re leaving,” the angel said, and with that he was pulling Dean by the arm out of the bar, only just leaving him enough time to grab his jacket off of the stool.

Outside the bar, the sky was bitumen-black and sporadically dotted with stars, thanks to clouds and light-pollution. The air was sharp against his neck. It sent a shiver down his spine and shook his hazy head awake.  
“I didn’t pay, Cas,” he mumbled, “They’re gonna figure it out, and-”  
Castiel cut him off again, “That doesn’t matter.”  
“Angel of the lord stealing? Cas don’t you think that that’s a little ironic?”  
“Let’s go home.”  
“Home?” He shook his arm out of the strong grip and frowned. “It’s early. I was busy.”  
Castiel raised an eyebrow, in that oh-so-human way. “Busy?”  
“I deserve leisure time.”  
“It’s one in the morning, Dean,” Cas replied sternly, and in the brief lapse of concentration and Dean let that sink in, he gripped his shoulder again. “We’re going home.”

**  
 _Just like that._ A _whoosh,_ the feeling of being gently strangled, and the hunter and his angel were standing in the middle of the study, Dean wobbling on his feet and only prevented from falling by the iron hold Cas had on him, pulling Dean up against him and pushing his shoulder under Dean’s arm to support him. It felt nostalgically like all the times they’d dragged one another beaten and bloody from the crossfire, except this time Dean wasn’t faint with blood loss, just the near-toxic blood-alcohol levels dancing through his veins.  
  
“What was that for?” he protested weakly, suddenly very, very tired.  
Castiel didn’t reply. Instead, he pulled on Dean gently, and once he had found his feet, pulled them both towards the stairs, dragging the limp like a ragdoll Dean up the steps, along the corridor, to his bedroom.

When Dean was finally sitting on the edge of his bed, Cas spoke.

“It’s your birthday,” he said.  
“Top-notch detective work, Cas. Wan’ a medal?”  
The angel sighed, gaze unwavering, and even in the dark his stare still burned like a blue flame. “Sam and I had a lead about Gadreel and we’ve been chasing it down all week, only to hit dead-end after dead-end. I’m sorry that I-”  
“Wait, am I in the bunker?”  
“Yes, I-”  
Dean sucked on his teeth. “Yeah, Sammy won’t like that.”  
Castiel blinked. “Just tonight. I didn’t know where you were currently staying, and you appear quite… inebriated.”  
The laugh that left the hunter’s mouth sounded much more bitter and hollow than he’d intended it as he replied, “Is that how you compliment a guy, Cas?”  
“You’re very drunk. You should get some-”  
“Blow me, Cas!”  
“I was just trying to look after you.” Silence fell for a brief moment until he quickly added, “I’m sorry we haven’t spoken in a while, but I haven’t left.”  
Dean glanced down at his hands for want of somewhere to look. “Well I wouldn’t be surprised if you did, Cas. Everyone usually does.”

Surprisingly, he felt the bed dip slightly at the weight of another sitting beside him.  
“You left Sam,” Cas pointed out in that annoying way of his, “not the other way ‘round.”  
No reply.  
“But you once told me I was like a brother to you. And I see how you care for and protect Sam, and I am trying to do the same for you.”

 _Brother? That’d been a poor choice of wording. Just made everything that little bit more awkward, didn’t it?_ he thought.

He looked back up at Castiel, both surprised and completely not surprised that he had, once again, forgotten about the _personal space_ thing. The air between them was barely three inches thick. From this close, Dean could see practically every pore in his slight frown, every crack in his lips, every tiny blood vessel under his eyes, just as haggard as Dean’s own.  
“Yeah. I know. I appreciate it.”

“You’re more of a brother to me than my brothers ever were, Dean.”

Dean chuckled drily and shook his head. “Don’t say that, Cas.”  
  
“Why not?”

“’Cos I don’t think brothers do this.”  
  
His last thought was _fuck it, I’m drunk._

He grabbed a handful of Castiel’s hair and pulled him in, crashing their lips together. Cas’ were parted in surprise but soon caught the drift, even if his mind hadn’t caught up yet, purely biologically. Dean kissed too hard and too wet, managing for the first time ever to push Castiel back-

“Dean.”  
Then there was coldness and emptiness and Castiel was frowning at him again.  
Dean breathed in sharply through his nose and looked away. His jaw was a terse line.  
“I should probably apologise,” he muttered.

“You’re just tired.”  
“I sleep average three hours a night, Cas, I think I know what I want.”  
He avoided looking up, but the look in his eyes was practically audible.  
“And what you want is…”  
“You. Is it really that much of a surprise?”

Castiel paused. “Not particularly.”

“Not particularly?”

“I’m naïve, Dean, but not an idiot. Also, Balthazar-”

Dean let out a pained groan followed by an abrupt laugh, and he forced himself to look up.  
“You’re kidding me, right? That smug little dick-”  
“My _brother_ simply told me to take more notice of my surroundings,” Castiel replied, “In particular, of you.”

He let that sit in the air for a moment. So that jibe about the other angel – _the one who’s in love with you_ – well, leave it to Castiel’s amorous, dick brother to figure it out before they had.

“Well,” he said, “I guess that’s good, because I thought that you and v-necks had something fishy going on for a while.”  
The angel swallowed. “I-no. Balthazar is surprisingly persceptive.”  
“That’s one word for it.”

Then Castiel was staring at him again, and those _goddamn eyes_ were burning holes in his skull. He studied Dean with an almost scientific air, searching and calculating. What was he doing- making a pros and cons list?

 _Pros – he might not remember this in the morning._  
Cons – stinks of booze, tastes like booze, will probably come to regret everything that has happened in the last twelve hours.  
  
“Cas, you’re kinda freaking me-”

Castiel kissed him hard.  
  
 _Okay, maybe not_ everything _._

Castiel kissed him like you’d think an angel would: confidently and powerfully, full of authority and dominance and just that tiny hint of neediness. Cas’ hand was on the back of his neck, and Dean’s fingers found their way to thread back through his hair, thick and wavy and soft, as Dean pressed his tongue against Cas’ lips and they fell apart. He licked along the other’s lips, his teeth, his tongue, explored his mouth and found more warmth there than there ever was in the bottom of his glass. The angel forgot that humans needed to breath and when he remembered, Dean sucked in a deep breath and let a short chuckle roll from his lips before he pressed in again.

His hands dropped from the unruly mop and to Castiel’s hips, skirting under the shirt that’d come loose from his belt -  
 _when had he taken his coat off? Sly dog, he thought with a grin into Cas’ mouth  
\- _ and his cold fingers brushing against the slightly sharp hips, the trail of hair from the hem of his pants to his navel. Castiel drew in a sharp breath but didn’t move, and Dean kissed him even harder, sucking on his lower lip in a way that made the angel release an uncharacteristically breathy moan. Seemingly determined to take control back, Cas found Dean’s overshirt and pushed it off.

“What is the point of this second layer?” Castiel asked, breaking away from the kiss momentarily. “Do you get cold often?”  
“Shut up and touch me, Cas.”

For all his usual inability, Castiel took the hint and soon Dean was shirtless and kissing him again as they ran their hands over each other. Dean’s mind fell back to Lisa in comparison, to her caring and her sensitivity, to _“You’re drunk, Dean, I don’t want you like this,”_ and the _“Are you sure?”_ s, and he was eternally and wholly grateful that there was none of that with the angel, with _his_ angel. Castiel didn’t treat him like he was fragile; Castiel handled him like he could move mountains; Castiel’s grip on his waist would probably leave bruises in the shape of fingers. Dean needed that.

Dean pushed Castiel back and they slowly crawled back up the bed until Cas’ head hit the wall and Dean sat astride him, becoming increasingly frustrated with the buttons on Cas’ _stupid shirt_ so he just ripped the buttons off and threw it aside. He left those lips, full and cracked, to nip at the skin of the other’s throat, Castiel throwing his head back to give him better access while Dean rutted his hips against Castiel’s, hearing the air leave the angel’s lungs. A cocky grin touched his ears, and a small part of his mind wondered if Castiel had thrown some sort of angel voodoo down on him, because despite how much he had drunk he was _definitely_ awake and aware now, and the denim of his pants was growing increasingly tight and painful.

“You think you could zap me out of these clothes, Cas?” Dean almost whimpered against his neck.  
Castiel’s voice was twice the gravel and three times the salt when he replied, “Do you think that would be as much fun?”  
“Oh. Ah, okay.” Dean swallowed hard and leant back into Cas, sucking at the tender flesh of his neck while his fingers danced around the angel’s belt like a question: the way Castiel rocked his hips up into Dean’s was the answer. He fumbled with the belt and threw it on the floor to join the vandalised shirt. Wordlessly, Castiel held him up by his hips so Dean could push his pants down to his knees -  
 _angels go commando? That’s not something they teach you on Sundays  
_ \- and rest on his haunches, looking over Castiel with his lips still wet and a little swollen.

“You didn’t pick an ugly vessel,” he quipped, before frowning, “Wait, Jimmy-”  
“Is long gone,” Castiel replied soothingly. “His soul is in Heaven. This body is mine.”  
“Cool. I’m not into voyeurism, ya know?”

Castiel reached up and pulled him down into another long kiss, and the friction of Castiel’s arousal against the stiffness in Dean’s own pants made him _mewl._

“P-please, Cas,” he spat between ragged breaths, dragging a hand down his chest. Quietly, Castiel’s nimble but calloused fingers made light work of Dean’s jeans and Dean couldn’t be more eager to aid him in shoving them down his legs. Castiel lingered against the thin fabric of his boxers, and it _had_ to be purposeful the way he ghosted over Dean’s erection without actually touching him. When Dean tried to grind into Castiel’s touch, the hands quickly left to the waistband of his underwear and pushed them down to. It suddenly occurred to Dean that they both were still wearing their shoes, and for some reason that turned him on more than anything. He kissed Castiel until their lips were sore and numb and he rolled his hips until it was painful, and when he couldn’t take it anymore he pushed a hand through the gap between their bodies, hot and already covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and grasped both of their cocks in his hand, throwing his head back at the touch that was almost too much for him, sensitive and painfully hard as he was. Castiel let out a gasp that turned into a growl and thrust into Dean’s hand as he tightened his hold, slipping his thumb over their heads and coating them in pre-cum, drawing a shiver from his angel. The moonlight would occasionally catch some awe-inspiring angle, like the sharp line of the muscles in his neck, or the perfect bow of his lips, and Dean would shiver and it would have nothing to do with the cold.

“Wanted this, Cas,” he spoke into skin as they thrusted into his hand like teenagers, “wanted you.”  
“I know, Dean,” Castiel replied, raspy and breathless.

This wasn’t what he had pictured, when he had pictured it. He had pictured slow, teasing blowjobs and running his tongue up the underside of Cas’ cock, pressing kisses down his spine and across his chest and stomach and legs. But somehow, in some way, this desperate, needy rutting was so much more perfect than anything he could have imagined, brimming with _want_. They panted and groaned into each other, and they were slick with sweat and Dean didn’t know how long he would last, or Cas for that matter, given the pace of his laboured breaths.

Castiel growled and rolled them over, pinning Dean to the bed, and _there_ was the strength and finesse of his angel, his unmovable mountain. His hand wrapped around Dean’s and the hunter felt himself teetering on that kife’s edge, heat pooling in his stomach. The grip of both of them, Castiel’s cock grinding against his, was unbearable, got him more drunk than all the liquor in the world could, and it wasn’t long before his thrusts became erratic. He leant up to kiss Castiel harder than ever and suddenly he could taste blood because somebody bit somebody’s lip and he flew over the edge, hips stuttering and mouth falling open in a soundless cry. Castiel followed soon after, moaning quietly, the both of them coming into their hands and onto Dean’s stomach until they were spent and Castiel just laid of top of Dean, both panting, Dean’s lips still parted in the echo of his orgasm. The weight of the angel protected him from the onslaught of the sudden cold air: all he could think of was the sweat between them, Cas’ forehead against his shoulder, his eyes fluttering closed as he tried to pull his pulse to a medically safe rate.

“Cas,” he moaned, finding his voice weak and hoarse.

 Suddenly, he felt Castiel tense and shift above him. Cas sat up and looked seriously down at Dean with the same studying gaze.  
"Dean, is this going to-"  
  
Dean cut him off the only way he knew how- with a kiss. It turns out that he had bitten Castiel's lip earlier, and now he carefully licked the blood from his swollen pout, kissing him with less urgency and force. 

"No," he said. "Nothing needs to change."


End file.
